Probability
by JACmRob
Summary: There’s a reason people don’t throw cancer-parties. A twoshot, with minor Dasey.


**Probability**

**By JACmRob**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Life With Derek.**

* * *

He's pissed when he finds out. How—_thisisn'thappening_—the _fuck_ does this happen? (_This isn't happening, this isn't happening_.)

His dad's sitting next to him when they get news. The doctor is in the middle of the whole "I'm terribly sorry" trip, one that Derek sees right through. He's the king of bullshit—_shit,shit,shit_— he should know better, right?

They're passed like luggage to another doctor, one with tacky red lipstick and dyed blonde hair. Her roots are glaring through. He feels like laughing, except there's never been anything less funny. His dad immediately starts talking about _options_, and a _course of action_, and all he can think is _fuck_.

If there's a god, he's singing some ironical tune right now.

The doctor's rhinestone earrings glint like beacons in low-watt lights. She's babbling on about a facility in Ontario, and he's still thinking _fuck_. His dad's got this look on his face, one that Derek can't describe, except that it's so damn _familiar_. (_This isn't happening_)

He wants to rip the fucking earrings from her ears and chuck them out the window. And then smash it with a sledgehammer, or something equally dramatic and violent. Or just curl up and die—_pleasedon'tletmefuckingdie_—and save a good couple months of suffering.

He's pissed.

* * *

They don't know how to break the news to the rest of the Venturi-MacDonalds, so Derek does what Venturis do best—he throws a party.

Of course, he's never had a party quite like this one. (It's not exactly a theme commonly picked.) The family notices, because it's decidedly lacking in cheer, not to mention that his dad looks like he's going to throw-up or smash something, or both.

_Fuckmefuckmefuckme._

He doesn't feel like making a giant announcement, and he doesn't really know how to say it (or doesn't want to). _Sayit,sayit._

So he stands up and bluntly offers them the truth.

"I have cancer."

In the shell shocked silence, he sits back down and cuts himself a slice of cancer-cake.

It tastes like ash in his mouth, but he can appreciate the dark humor. (Because his life feels like one big fucking joke.)

There's a reason people don't throw cancer-parties.

* * *

Acute myelogenous leukemia. Cancer of the white blood cells. It's a disease he knows all about. It has a 21.3% survival rate. He also knows that the probability means _nothing_, and that you can go into remission and you can be completely _fine_, and the next day you're coughing up blood and then you're _dead_ (_god, mom, you were better!_).

It's his first day of chemo. He's reading a comic while an IV pumps poison into his arm.

The whole family has decided to come, like it's a group event, or better yet, one of his fucking hockey games, and they're ready to rally him against the opposing team.

He's got to say, though, he's never faced a team this tough.

* * *

He's at a party. He had to sneak out to get there, because his dad and Nora barely let him leave the house besides going to school and the hospital. They think he's too 'delicate' (delicate my _ass_)—it's the nice way of saying _dying_. (_Pleasedon'tletmefuckingdie_)

He sips his beer. His head is buzzing nicely, and he knows he's _way_ to drunk to drive home tonight.

Somehow, though—_fuckingcancer—_ he's not in the mood to party. Which is why he's sitting in the dark with Sam and Ralph.

They know something's up. They've been telling him he's been acting weird lately. They say he's much to thin, they ask him if he's sick. And he denies, denies, denies. (_liarliarliarliar_)

Because he doesn't want _sympathy_—_don'ttellmeyou'resorry_—he hates _sympathy_. He hates being delivered casseroles and fruitcakes, and fucking "get well soon!" cards with smiling teddy bears and shit.

And he's going to kill the next person who calls him _brave_ or _strong _or _a fighter._ (_He's fucking terrified_)

"I have leukemia," he blurts out.

"My zodiac's cancer," he continues, goaded by the buzz of alcohol, "And I _have_ cancer. Isn't that weird?"

"Kind of," Ralph says.

He takes another sip of beer.

"Are you going to die?" Sam asks. It's a question that would have never been voiced were he sober. Derek shrugs.

"I don't know."

A pause.

"That sucks, man."

* * *

I hate chemotherapy, he thinks. He's leaning over the toilet, puking his guts up. He wonders if there'll be any organs left in his body by the time he's done.

He staggers out of the bathroom, dizzy and nauseous and exhausted. Nora's playing the Worried Parent while George is at work today. She helps him to his bedroom and he collapses on his bed, pulling the covers around himself. In an instant he's out.

It seems like a second later that someone's shaking him awake.

"Stop bugging the cancer victim," he mumbles. It's always a nice card to play when someone's pissing him off.

"Mom wants to know if you want to come down for dinner," Lizzie asks.

"Not if you want me puking that up, too," he says, rolling over with a groan.

Lizzie bites her lip.

"Want me to bring something up to you?"

"I'm fine, Lizard," he says with a grimace. "Leave me to my wallowing."

The next time Derek wakes up it's much later. He can hear the tapping of someone—Casey?—sitting at his computer. He sits up with a grunt.

"What'r you doin' in my room, Spacy?" he yawns, too tired to fight her.

Something is dropped on his lap. It's a stack of research—_whatthehell?_ He thumbs through it.

"'Wonderbread?'" he voices, raising an eyebrow.

"Studies show that it reduces hair loss in cancer patients," she babbles, sitting on his bed. She's in full Mc'Nerd zone. "In a clinical trial in 2002, 28 participants showed a 14% improvement in—"

"_Wonderbread_?"

He's laughing, and she grins reluctantly. The smile lights up her whole face, and his stomach starts doing back flips—_snapoutofit!_

"I brought you some tea," she says, handing him a mug.

"Tea is for chicks," he replies, but he drinks it anyway.

* * *

He's standing in front of the bathroom mirror. He barely recognizes the reflection—_isthatreallyme?_—thin and pale with deep bags under his eyes. He's wasting away.

A hand is raised to his hair. All it takes is a gentle tug, and a huge clump of brown locks fall away in his fist. His hair is falling out. He's known all along that it was going to happen, it's somehow worse that way. It's on his pillow when he wakes up and constantly swirling down the drain in the shower. He grabs another handful of hair and watches as it peels off his scalp.

Cancer has taken his looks. It's a bratty, superficial thing to whine about (_especially when you're practically dying_), but it isn't fucking _fair_.

He presses the electrical razor to his skull. It buzzes, and clumps of hair drop into the sink. He doesn't stop until he's finished, and he's standing completely bald in front of the mirror. He runs a hand over his smooth, newly shaven scalp.

I look like fucking Kojak, he thinks.

He puts a beanie on.

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of someone whispering his name.

"Smerek…"

A grunt.

Someone tugs at his arm. It rolls over and sees it's Marti and she's crying. (_God, he hates it when she cries_)

"What's wrong Smarti?" he asks. When she says nothing he picks her up and pulls her into bed with him, cuddling her against him (_pleasestopcrying,pleasestopcrying_).

Her tiny hand clenches his t-shirt and she sobs against his chest. He rests his head against her hair and waits until the sobs subside to muffled sniffles.

"You gonna tell me what's wrong?" he asks.

"I—_sniff_—don't want you to—_sniff_—_die_ like mommy, Smerek." His heart drops into the pit of his stomach. (_Oh fuck, what can he say to that_?) She snuggles in closer to him, and he instinctively runs a hand through her hair.

"I'm not going anywhere, Smarti," he whispers.

"Promise?" the small voice prompts with a hiccup. (_He wishes he could_)

"Promise." (_liarliarliarliarliar_)

* * *

It's raining. He's standing in front of her gravestone while the droplets splash down, soaking through his clothes. Probably not a smart idea, since his immune system's been shot to hell by radiation.

He doesn't know what to say, but he's so damn _angry_ and frustrated. More than anything, he's _tired_. Exhausted, really. This shouldn't be happening. (_Not fair, not fair_.)

He's shaking. It's times like these when his voice wells up in the back of his throat like tiny scratches and pinpricks and he wants to scream but _can't_ because he's choking on it.

"Thanks for your _fucking_ genetics, mom!"

He's shouting at the gravestone, and it's pointless and stupid (_she'sdeadshe'snevercomingback_) because cancer's ruined his life once before. (_is once not good enough?_)

Cancer. He _hateshateshates_ the fucking _word_. Cancer never even existed to him before—it was for all those misfortunate people in hospitals, not his normal, happy family.

Until one day it came knocking on the window of his mom's office telling her to take a vacation _forever_. It wasn't fair—_hecan'tfuckingbreath_—it shouldn't have happened to them--_hecan'tfuckingbreath_. _It's not supposed to happen to me._

And somehow, even though he's the only one sick, it's killing them all.

* * *

TBC

A/N: So i've wanted to write a Derek/cancer story for ages, just never got around to doing it. It's going to be a twoshot, and I'll have the second part up pretty soon. In the meantime, REVIEW!

This is probably going to be my last story for Life With Derek. To be honest, I don't watch the show anymore and it's been a long time since any of the fics captured my attention. The whole LwD forum is very...dissatisfying. Sorry guys! But honestly, there's so few fics out there that are well written with intruiging plots. (If I see one more story summarized "Derek and Casey hate eachother. But when they're forced to work together for a school project, will all that change?" I'm going to lose it!) I'm putting my other LwD fic, Wires, on hiatus indefinatly, because I probably won't get back to it.

Once again, I'm sorry but I'm not going to be doing much with LwD any more. So please review my final hurrah!

--JR


End file.
